I glanced over at Grace, who was already carefully sketching the rectangular frame of the bird feeder on her screen, her fingers steady and absorbed in her work.

I folded the liability paper back along its three original lines, pressed the creases flat between my palms, and slipped it deep into my shoulder bag.

I turned into the dark driveway on Elm Street at six minutes past eleven.

Daniel’s silver sedan was gone, and the garage was shut tight against the chilly night air.

On the kitchen counter downstairs, Daniel’s black leather wallet lay next to a silver fountain pen and a folded receipt from the Oak Ridge plaza parking garage dated 8:20 PM.

I picked up the receipt, noted the time, and set it back down by the key hook.